Читать книгу Deck the Halls - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 9

The voice on the answering machine, while obviously feminine, sounded curt and cheeky.

“Come to your old apartment and get your mail before I trash it. Never heard of mail forwarding?”

Vince smacked the heel of one hand against his forehead. Where was his brain? He hadn’t given a single thought to having his personal mail forwarded. In the past few weeks he’d been too busy settling into the new house, replacing his business accountant and hiring enough mechanics to fulfill a city maintenance contract to think about his personal mail.

Just about everything important came to the offices of Cutler Automotive, but that was no excuse. He should’ve realized that the new tenant of his old apartment would have to deal with his share of circulars and the other junk that routinely clogged every mailbox in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. Besides, something important did occasionally find its way into his residential mailbox. In fact, the materials he’d been expecting about the spring singles’ retreat at his church would undoubtedly be among the papers waiting for him at the old apartment.

He hit a button and listened to the message again. Her irritation couldn’t have been more obvious, but he found himself smiling at the huskiness of her voice melded with the tartness of her tone. He heard both strength and vulnerability there, an odd combination of toughness and femininity. Since he was still wearing his jacket over his work clothes, he decided that he might as well go at once, make his apologies and relieve her of the unwanted burden of his mail.

Picking up his keys from the counter, he jauntily tossed them into the air, snatched them back again and retraced his steps through the new, sparsely furnished house to the garage and the shiny, white, three-quarter-ton pickup truck waiting there. Glancing at the sign proudly painted on the door, he climbed inside and started it up. The powerful engine rumbled throatily for a moment before he backed the truck out onto the drive and in to the street.

As he shifted the transmission into a forward gear he tossed a wave at his next-door neighbor Steve, who was taking advantage of the clear, early-November weather in the last hour of daylight to walk his dog. The Boltons were nice people. Wendy, the missus, had been one of the first people to welcome Vince to the neighborhood. They were about his age and the proud parents of a sixteen-month-old curly-top named Mandy, who took most of their time and attention, but Wendy seemed determined to “fix him up” with one of her single friends. Steve had confided that his wife found Vince too “tall, dark and delish” to be still single at twenty-nine, but that she’d have felt the same way if he’d been a “bald warthog.”

Vince didn’t know about being “tall, dark and delish,” but he didn’t think he was a “bald warthog,” either. He’d happily give up the single state the moment that God brought the right woman into his life. So far he hadn’t stumbled across her—not that he’d exactly been out beating the bushes for the future Mrs. Cutler.

He was a busy man with a booming business, three garages and a large extended family, including his parents, four sisters and half a dozen nieces and nephews, with one more on the way, not to mention the brothers-in-law and innumerable aunts, uncles and cousins. That, church and a few close friends was about all he could manage, frankly.

As he drove toward his old apartment building, a feeling of déjà vu overcame him. He remembered well the day, almost a decade ago, when he’d first moved into the small, bland efficiency apartment. A heady feeling of liberation had suffused him then. He’d felt so proud to have left the home of his parents and struck out on his own, leaving behind two pesky younger sisters and two nosy older ones.

Of course, with more freedom had come greater responsibility. Then had come the hard-won understanding that responsibility itself could be counted even more of a joy than any foolish, youthful notions of “freedom” that he’d once entertained. A fellow could take pride in meeting his responsibilities and meeting them well, whereas freedom—as he had learned—could become an empty exercise in keeping loneliness at bay.

Other lessons had followed. He’d found his best friends in moments of difficulty rather than fun, though that was important, too. Most significant, Vince had learned that those who truly loved him—his family, particularly his parents—were bulwarks of support rather than burdens of bondage. The mature Vince possessed a keen awareness that not everyone was as richly blessed in that area.

For the life he had built and the man he had become, he had his parents, with their thoughtful guidance, patience, loving support and Christian examples, to thank. For his parents, he could only thank God, which was not to say that from time to time they did not make him wish that he lived on a different continent, particularly when it came to his single status.

By the time he pulled into the rutted parking lot of the small, dated, two-story apartment building, Vince was feeling pretty mellow with memories. He was by nature a fairly easygoing type, but he possessed a certain intensity, too, an innate drive that had served him well in building his business. Looking around the old place as he left the vehicle and moved onto the walkway, he saw that nothing whatsoever had changed, only his circumstances.

Onward and upward, he mused, setting foot on the bottom step of an all-too-familiar flight of stairs. His heavy, steel-toed boots rang hollowly against the open metal treads as he climbed. After passing three doors on the open landing, he stopped at the fourth and automatically reached for the doorknob. Only at the last moment did he derail his hand, lifting it and coiling it into a fist. Before his knuckles could make contact with the beige-painted wood, however, the door abruptly opened and a feminine face appeared. Obviously she had heard him coming.

“Who are you?”

Vince looked down into clear green eyes like pale jade marbles fringed with sandy-brown lashes. Large and almond-shaped, they literally challenged him. He backed up a step, lowering his hand and took in the whole of her oval face.

It was a bit too long to be labeled classically pretty, just as her nose seemed a bit too prominent to be called pert. But those eyes and the lush contours of a generous mouth, along with high, prominent cheekbones and the sultry sweep of eyebrows a shade darker than her golden-brown hair made a very striking, very feminine picture, indeed. The hair was the finishing touch, her “crowning glory,” as the Scriptures said. Thick and straight with a healthy, satiny shine, it hung well past her shoulders, almost to her elbows.

Vince suddenly had the awful feeling that his mouth might be agape. He cleared his throat, making sure that it wasn’t, and finally registered her question.

“I’m, uh, Vincent Cutler. You left a message on my—”

“Well, it’s about time!” she exclaimed, sweeping her wispy bangs off her forehead with one hand and then instantly brushing them down again. “I’ve got a whole bag full of your mail here. You must be on every mailing list in the country.”

He nodded in thoughtless agreement, but she whirled away too abruptly to notice. He watched the agitated sway of her hips as her long legs carried her across the floor. She moved toward the narrow counter that separated the tiny corner kitchen from the rest of the single room and he instinctively followed.

“I tried dropping it off at the post office,” she complained, “but they just kept sending it right back to me. Doesn’t matter that it hasn’t got my name on it. It’s got my address. That’s all they care about apparently.”

“Guess so,” Vince mumbled, shrugging.

A raised ten-by-ten-foot platform set off by banisters denoted the sleeping area, and the remaining floor space served as dining and living rooms. A small bathroom containing a decent-sized closet opened off the latter. He knew all this without bothering to look, the apartment being as familiar to him as his own face in a mirror. Besides, his attention was fully taken by the tall, slender, feminine form in worn jeans and a simple, faded T-shirt, mostly obscured by the fall of her hair.

When she bent to open a cabinet door and reach inside, gentlemanly impulse sent his gaze skittering reluctantly around the room. Color jolted him as his eyes took in a bright-yellow wall and a neat, simple plaid of yellow, red and green against a stark white background. Potted plants were scattered about, and he registered a smattering of tiny checks and a few ruffles, but the room was not overly feminine as his mother’s and sisters’ houses were inclined to be. The furnishings were sparse and dated, obviously used, but the overall effect was surprisingly pleasing, much better than the drab, often cluttered place that he had inhabited.

“Wow,” he said, and the next thing he knew, she was flying at him, both hands raised.

“What are you doing? Get out! Get out!”

She hit him full force, palms flat against his chest, propelling him backward. Vince threw his arms out in an attempt to regain his balance and then felt them knocked down again as he stumbled backward through the door, which summarily slammed in his face, just inches from his nose. Automatically reaching up, he checked to be certain that it hadn’t taken a blow and felt the small familiar hump of a previous break. That was when he heard the bolt click and the safety chain slide into place.

For another moment, he was too stunned even to think, but then he began to replay the last few minutes in his mind, and gradually realization came to him. He slapped both hands to his cheeks. Good grief! She hadn’t invited him in; he’d just followed her like some lost puppy, right into her home! Her home, not his, not any longer. No wonder she’d freaked! He dropped his hands.

“Oh, hey,” he said to the door, feeling more and more like an idiot. “I—I didn’t mean to alarm you. I would never…that is, I—I used to live here,” he finished lamely.

She, of course, said nothing.

He closed his eyes, muttering, “Way to go, Cutler. Way to go. Probably scared the daylights out of her.”

Shifting closer, he tried to pitch his voice through the door without really raising it; he knew too well how thin the walls were around here. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

He waited several seconds, but there might have been a brick wall behind that door rather than a living, breathing woman. Actually, he had no idea if she was even still in the vicinity. She might have been cowering in the farthest corner of the room, though he couldn’t quite picture her doing so.

No, a woman like that wouldn’t be cowering. More likely she was standing there with a baseball bat ready to bash in his head if he so much as turned the doorknob. Clearly, a prudent man would retreat.

Despite recent evidence, Vince Cutler was a prudent man.

He turned and walked swiftly along the landing, then quickly took the stairs and swung around the end of the railing toward his truck. A certain amount of embarrassment mixed with chagrin dogged him as he once more climbed behind the wheel, his errand an obvious bust. Yet, a smile kept tweaking the corners of his mouth as he thought about the woman upstairs.

She was all dark gold, that woman, dark gold and vinegar. Spunky, that’s what she was. He recalled that the top of her head had come right to the tip of his nose. Considering that he stood an even six feet in his socks, she had to be five-seven or eight, which would explain those long legs. It occurred to him suddenly that he didn’t even know her name; that, more than anything else, just seemed all wrong.

As he turned the big truck back onto the street, he also turned his mind to mending fences. She still had his mail, after all, and he couldn’t let things lie as they were. Good manners, if nothing else, decreed it. The question was how to approach her again. Frowning, he immediately sought solutions in the only manner he knew.

“Lord, I don’t know what happened to my good sense. I scared that girl. Please don’t let her sit there afraid that I’d hurt her. The whole thing was my fault, and if You’ll just show me how, I’ll try to make up for it.”

Just then he drove by a minivan with the tailgate raised. It was parked in an empty lot and surrounded by hand-lettered signs touting Tyler roses, buckets of which were sitting on its back deck. A strange, unexpected thought popped into his head, one so foreign and seemingly out of nowhere that it startled him, and then he began to laugh.

That’s what happened when you relied on God to lead you. As his daddy would say, when you ask God for guidance, you’d better get out of the way quick. Now all he had to do was pick his time and his words very carefully. That was to say, very prayerfully.

Vince polished the toe of one boot on the back of the opposite pants leg, not a work boot this time but full-quill ostrich, one half of his best pair of cowboy boots. Armed to the teeth with two dozen bright red rosebuds, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and rapped sharply on the door. He counted to six before the door opened this time.

Green eyes flew wide, but he thrust flowers and words at her before he could find himself facing that door again.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant to frighten you or seem disrespectful.” When she didn’t immediately slam the door in his face, he hurried on. “I guess I just lived here so long that it seemed perfectly natural to walk inside. I didn’t think how inappropriate it was or how it would seem to you.” She frowned and folded her arms, giving her head a leonine toss. He found himself smiling. “Honest. I feel like a dunce.”

“You’re grinning like one,” she retorted, and then she sniffed.

His smile died, not because she’d insulted him—he didn’t take that seriously—but because she’d obviously been crying.

“Oh, hey,” he said, feeling like a real heel. “You okay?”

She swiped jerkily at her eyes and lifted her chin. “Yeah, sure I’m okay. You going to beat me with those flowers or what?”

“Huh?” He dropped his arm then quickly lifted it again, saying, “These are for you.”

One corner of her mouth quirked, and humor suddenly glinted in those clear green eyes. “Yeah, I figured.”

“For, uh, your trouble.” He shifted uncertainly. “The mail and all.”

“And all?” she echoed, arching one brow.

He gave her his most charming smile and waggled the roses in their clear plastic cone. “I said I was sorry.”

She reached out and languidly swept the flowers from his grasp, drawling, “Right. Thanks. I suppose you want your mail now.”

He nodded and fished a folded card out of his pocket, offering it to her. “I’ve already turned in one, but I thought you might want to drop that in the box yourself, so you’ll know for sure that it’s done.”

She glanced at the change-of-address card, and that brow went up again. “That’s you? Cutler Automotive?”

Nodding, he dipped into the hip pocket of his dark jeans and came up with a couple of coupons. “That reminds me. Maybe you can use these sometime.”

She tucked the change-of-address card into the roses and took these new papers into one hand, cocking her head to get a good look at them.

“Hmm,” she said, reading the top one aloud, “Fifty percent off service and repairs.” She looked him right in the eye. “This on the up-and-up?”

“Absolutely.”

“No catch? I don’t have to spend a certain amount or agree to some extra service?”

“Nope. You just present the signed coupon, we knock fifty percent off your bill.”

“No strings attached?”

“We don’t accept photocopies,” he pointed out, calling her attention to the smaller print at the bottom of the paper. “But that’s it.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Okay. Great. If you wait right here, I’ll get your mail.”

“These feet are not moving,” he promised, but the instant she turned her back, he craned his neck to get another look around.

She’d done wonders with the old place. Despite the dated furniture and faded fabrics, the apartment had a homey, put-together feel about it that he quite liked, and he told her so.

“Never looked this good when I lived here.”

She laid the flowers on the counter and turned to face him. “No?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “Guess I just don’t have the knack.”

“What guy does?”

“None I know of, not many women, either, from what I can tell.”

“You pay attention to that sort of thing, do you?” she asked, seeming surprised. It had sounded a little odd, now that he thought about it.

“Lately, I do. Since the move.”

“Ah.”

She bent and extracted a small shopping bag from the cabinet.

“This is it,” she said, carrying the bag toward him. “Two more pieces came just today.”

He reached through the open doorway to accept the bag. It was stuffed with papers.

“I’m sorry about this. I usually take better care of business.”

“I just hope there aren’t any overdue bills in there,” she said dryly.

“Naw, I try not to have any of those.”

“We all try,” she quipped wryly, but he detected a troubled note.

“Not all,” he said, wanting to reassure her somehow. “You’d be surprised how many people make no attempt to pay their bills.”

“Maybe they can’t.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, “but if they try, we work with them.”

She tilted her head and her brows bounced up and down at that. “Cutler Automotive, you mean.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Huh.”

After a second or two it became apparent that she wasn’t going to say anything else, and he couldn’t for the life of him think of any way to rectify that. He shuffled his feet in place.

“Well, you have a nice evening.”

She reached for the door. “Yeah, you, too, if you can with all that to go through.” She nodded at the sack in his arms. “If any more comes, I’ll send it on your way now that I have a good address.”

“I don’t mind coming after it again,” he assured her quickly, “if you’ll just call.”

“I’ll send it,” she stated decisively.

Defeated, he nodded. “Okay. However you want to handle it.”

“That’s how I want to handle it,” she said flatly, backing up to push the door closed. “So long, Vincent Cutler.”

He put up a hand. “Wait a sec. I’d like to know your name, at least. I mean, if you don’t mind.” He shrugged. “Seems strange bringing flowers to a woman whose name I don’t even know.”

She considered a moment longer then said, “Jolie.”

“Jo Lee,” he repeated carefully.

“No.” She rolled her eyes. “Jolie. J-o-l-i-e.”

“Ah. That’s pretty. Jolie what?”

She flattened her mouth, but then she answered. “Jolie Wheeler. Jolie Kay Wheeler.”

He smiled again for some reason. It just sounded…right. “Jolie Kay. I’ll remember that.”

“If you say so.”

His smile stretched into a grin. “Good night, Jolie Kay Wheeler. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I doubt it.”

He didn’t. He didn’t know why, but even as that door closed to him once again, he knew somehow that he hadn’t seen the last of spunky, pretty Jolie Wheeler. Strangely enough, that thought was quite all right by him.

Jolie reached into the cabinet overhead and brought down a big pickle jar to serve as a vase. After filling it with tap water, she turned to the counter where the tightly budded roses waited. No one had ever brought her flowers before. Figured it would be some goofball like Cutler. First he doesn’t bother to have his mail forwarded, and then he strolls right in as if he owns the place, as if an open door is an automatic invitation to invade the premises.

The good-looking ones were always like that, thought they had a right to the whole world just because they were easy on the eyes. He was easier than most, with that pitch-black hair, lazy, blue-gray eyes, square jaw and dimples. More polite than most, too.

He had immediately apologized yesterday for invading her space, but her heart had been slamming against her rib cage so violently that she hadn’t found enough air to reply. Then embarrassment had taken over, and she’d mulishly let him stand there and wheedle until he’d given up and gone away.

Actually, he seemed harmless enough. Now.

The day before when she’d looked up and found him standing there in the middle of her apartment as if sizing up the joint, he’d appeared eight feet tall and hulking. Today, of course, he’d been his usual six-foot—or thereabout—self. She hadn’t imagined those broad shoulders and bulging biceps, though, or the slim hips and long legs. The truth was, she had panicked, which wasn’t like her, but then she didn’t know what she was like anymore. Nothing was as it had been. Without Russell.

She pushed away thoughts of her nephew, rapidly blinking against a fresh onslaught of tears.

This was getting to be a habit. She’d be okay for a while, and then something would remind her of that sweet baby face, that milky, gap-toothed smile and little hands that grasped so trustingly, coiling themselves in her hair and shirt. The loss still devastated her. More, it made her angry, at herself as much as at her sister and brother.

She should never have let herself love little Russ so completely. She should have treated him as nothing more than a foster child, his presence in her life temporary at best. After all, she knew only too well how the game was played. Ten years of experience on one side of that equation should have prepared her better for the other.

Oh, she had been placed with foster families who had truly tried to make her feel a part of the group, but she had always known that it would end. Something would happen, and she would be on her way again, shuffling from one home to another with heart-numbing regularity.

Somehow, though, she hadn’t let herself think that it could happen with Russell. When Connie had first gone to prison, pregnant and unwed, she had talked about giving up her child for adoption. Then, after his birth, when she’d asked Jolie to take him and give him a good home, saying that he ought to be with family, Jolie had seen her opportunity to really have someone of her own.

She and Connie had never discussed what would happen after Connie got out. For one thing, Jolie had never dreamed that a judge would actually hand over the child whom she had raised as her own to her misguided younger sister, no matter that said sister had given birth to him. It wasn’t fair, and to have their adored big brother Marcus side with Connie had been the unkindest cut of all.

Jolie was still grieving, but she supposed that was to be expected. It had only been days since she’d last seen him, eleven days, two hours, in fact. She could know how many minutes if she was foolish enough to check her watch, which she wasn’t. Of course she was still grieving. She’d grieved her mother’s absence for years, until she’d found out that Velma Wheeler was dead. Strangely enough, knowing that her mother had died was easier than believing that her mother had simply abandoned her children to the uncertain kindness of strangers.

Jolie shook her head and willed away the tears that had spilled from her eyes, telling herself that she would get on top of this latest loss. She’d had lots of practice.

Reaching for the roses, she slid them from their plastic cone and began arranging them in their makeshift vase. She did not realize, as the pleasing design began to take shape, that she made it happen with an innate, God-given ability which those lacking it would surely treasure.

Never once in her entire life had she ever imagined that anyone could admire or envy anything about her.